Feelings, nothing more than feelings
by NamelessDudette
Summary: Mystery murder, unestablished yet but will build up to Rizzles and maybe dark humour. I do not own Rizzoli and Isles and I want to stay on the safe side of the law. Thanks for the time if you do offer :)
1. Chapter 1

"Rizzoli."

"Do I have to place you on permanent desk duty to have you actually be near your desk Rizzoli?"

Cavanagh.

"No Sir, I'm just down in the morgue. Waiting on the tox scans."

She looks at you. Her lips pursed.

You roll your eyes. You point at the phone.

"Be that as it may Rizzoli. I better not have reason to send you back to evidence again."

"Yes Sir." I'm still in the precinct, aren't I. You make a face as you wait for the call to end.

"Ever the petulant child," she redirects her attention back to the cadaver on her autopsy table, "there aren't any actual toxicology scan results to be waiting for, is there Jane?"

I just want to spend time with you Maura.

"He's checking on me like I'm a baby. Which I'm not. I'm a detective," you strike a superman pose, "besides it's warm up there. It's cooler down here." Nicer too actually. It's nearer, to you.

"Well, the cold storage room might be a better option then," you watch as she frowns, "Jane, do you see this?"

"And be the only warm bodied one there? No way," she shakes her head and goes over to the medical examiner, "not approving of double-chinned civilians now are we Maur?"

"There," she points, "do you see it?"

A gold filament; barely visible or noticeable, at a glance. Yet still, you're a detective. You're supposed to be observant. What's gotten into you.

"That shiny gold thread thingy?"

"It might not be thread," she picks it up with a pair of tweezers, "I'll need Susie to run a test on it to determine its actual composite make-up before I can offer you the right name or terminology for it."

"Right...I'm guessing it's thread anyway." You shrug your shoulders.

"I don't guess Jane," she's hunched over labelling the new evidence.

"I know Maura, and that's what makes you so good at what you do."

"And guessing is what makes you so good at yours Jane."

"You make me look good," and feel good, "most of the time." You can't help but flash a smug grin.

"You're very good at what you do Jane," she pats my arm, "but you best be at your desk too."

"Alright Maur, I'll be real good," you turn to go, "but if you need anything, just, let me know, alright?"

"Of course Jane, I'll be right up there once Susie has the test results."

* * *

You're reading up on Oxytocin when a knock forms against your office door.

"Come in."

"Hi Dr Isles, the test results are in." She hands the manila folder over but doesn't turn to go.

"Thank you Susie, is there something else?"

She looks uncertain. She looks fidgety. You read the report. You understand.

"Thank you Susie," you offer her a nod and stand to go," I'll bring this to the detective."

She nods.

You walk towards the bullpen, each click of your stilettoes against the marble floor echoes. You enter and you see her at her desk. You go to her. Dark-haired and gorgeous; she must never know.

"Jane, the results are back. The composite make-up of that filament we found rules out the possibility of it being thread. Its make-up contained enough keratin for it to test positively as hair fibre," you swallow, "it's highly likely for it to be that of a child's Jane."

You watch as her face loses colour. You watch as it changes from thoughtful to that of misery and fear.

"I know," she reaches for a sheet of paper, "I didn't want to believe it but, I know." She hands it over.

You see a picture of a blonde haired toddler. You do not try to gauge exactly how old; there just isn't much to go on. You read the words below.

_'Young boy, of maybe three, maybe four. That's how many hours more, he'll have till he'll be alive no more. The clock is ticking detective. You better bring those heels in to do some brain-storming. You're both so pretty, would be a shame to have those lips frowning. The clock is ticking.'_

You feel as if you might fall. You feel as if you're falling.

You reach for support and her hand holds you, steadies you.

You hold onto her hand; she holds onto you.

* * *

The pipes leak. There's nothing but the windows, ceiling, a table and the floor. It's perfect. It's enough. You watch as the figure lay across the speckled granite stirs. It's time.

You sit in front of him. An arm's length away. You would be closer but, let's just be polite about personal space. It's the least you can offer. You wait till full consciousness settles.

It's always the eyes. As the lids lift to let in the light, however dim, slight dilation happens and it's so minute, but still, so arousing. It's always the eyes, that keep you looking.

You see it. The realization. The fear. The panic. Widened and darkened pupils. You thrive.

"Shh…it's okay," you almost reach out to soothe, "it'll be okay."

His eyes well and you can hear muffled cries. He's just a boy. Still, that's it, he's just a boy. Empathy has just never fitted well on you. It's always been cold. Deep inside. You smile.

"Someone will come and get you. I hope someone does. It wouldn't be fun otherwise," you reach for some building blocks behind you, "do you want to play? With me?"

You wonder if he understands. You wonder if he will accept. You wonder just why, nobody ever says yes.

You see him looking at the blocks. You wonder if he knows that they are his after all. He had a whole wardrobe of toys. You figured he wouldn't miss it. There would be a lot he'll miss. His dad maybe, but not this. You look at him. Looking at the blocks.

"It's okay," you try on a smile, "we can play?" You wonder why it sounds as if you're questioning yourself.

You remember the cookies. You almost hit yourself.

You reach to the table top. You feel for cookies. You feel for a plate of cookies.

"Do you want some? You place the plate beside the blocks. "Do you want to play too?"

A nod. You watch tear drops soak into cloth. He's crying but he nods. He wants to play. You select excitement. Wait, maybe it's the cookies. You forget excitement.

"Play?" You ask again.

He nods.

You look to your watch. Two and a half hours more. That's one-hundred and fifty minutes of fun. You've never had someone willing for more than two.

"Will you promise to not run away?"

He looks confused. Well, he's only three or four. Does he understand words at all? Maybe you should have gotten someone older. Someone who can maybe play board games or dolls. You tell yourself that greed can be a person's undoing; one of the seven sins. You've heard it all before. You try again.

"Play? No run?"

He looks at you. He nods. You select a cookie and a smile, you offer both to him, before removing the cloth bounds. The clock is ticking.

* * *

**A/N: **Hi there, dear reader, if you've gotten here, thanks for reading! :)


	2. Chapter 2

You watch as he places a block atop a block. He alternates the colours. He never stacks a yellow atop another yellow or a blue atop a blue. You wonder why he never uses red. You ask.

"Why do you not use red?" You hold out a red block, an offering. He looks at you. You read his face. You read his body. You know the cues, you know the nuances. You've memorized all that books can offer. He hasn't warmed up to you, but he is less afraid. Cookies can do that.

He shakes his head and says, "No thank you." You smile at his manners. You shake away the unbidden memory. You frown at the rejection. You know it's not the same; this is a polite declination. Still, you want to know why. You always want to know why.

"Why?"

He looks at you. Dried tears still mark his cheeks. He smiles a tiny smile and looks at you as if you're crazy for asking a silly question. Maybe you have, maybe you are. Yet that's not the matter now. You're waiting for his reason. You're always waiting for a reason.

"Because red isn't nice?" He shrugs and continues stacking blocks. He touches red. He looks at you. "Do you like red?" He touches yellow. "Yellow? It's better."

You almost smile at his child-like subtlety of insistence. You almost do. Then you see green. You think green. Like green, you are always envious. Of people. Of children. You are envious of him. Of how he's so oblivious. He has close to an hour left, and he's offering blocks to a stranger. Why can't you be that blissfully oblivious. You almost smile. You almost do.

* * *

"Frost, run a check on the address this email came from," you hand him the paper, "I don't think it's just a silly practical joker spamming our inboxes."

You had wished it was someone making a funny. You had wished it was anything but an abduction. You had wished that maybe, at least let it to be a kidnapping. At least there'll be a chance of a ransom exchange. This. This is a taunt from a twisted killer. That you had wished wasn't real.

Then she came, heels clicking, with the test results; each click stirring your heart. She's real, and this is very real. She's been brought in.

"Hurry Frost," you look at the clock, "We haven't got long." The clock is ticking.

You are thankful for her hand. It's keeping you strong. It's holding you still.

You struggle with finding the boy and hiding out with her.

It can never happen again, Maura in danger.

You've been a detective long enough to know, to protect the one with the higher chance of survival; even if she's not in direct danger, it's her.

* * *

You listen as she hands out orders. You watch as her brow furrows, deep in her thoughts. You know that it's not the time and place to, but you can't stop looking at her. She gives off such wonder, such power; such mesmerizing charm. You think that she's gorgeous, that she's magnificent. You tell yourself that she has to stay your best friend.

"Jane, are you okay?"

"Yes Maura, I'm okay. Are you?"

"Do you want to come down to the office with me Jane?"

"Sure Maura, I'll have asked too, if you haven't already." She smiles. You can't help but smile at her smile. A boy's taken and you still smile at her smile. You can't let her sink again.

"Let me know when you get a hit Frost. I'll be with Maura." You hear her add as she follows you out of the bullpen. She'll be with you; you try not to think too much into it.

* * *

"I'll be back in a moment, stay, okay?" You ask him. Instructing seems too harsh. He's just a little boy.

He looks at you, with shining blue eyes. You turn away. You do not need to know the colour of his eyes. He nods. You send a smile, one not a fraction too high.

You wonder for a moment if it'll be too cruel to leave him in silence. You look at him. Stacking blocks. You tell yourself that he'll be okay. You'll only be gone for a moment.

It's better that you do. You need a moment.

You climb the stairs; you hear the sounds of running water. Did you leave the tap on? You forget yourself for a moment. You hear a voice, you hear voices. Impossible.

"Hello?"

No answer. Still, you hear running water. You look into the living room. The television's on. There's the voice, the voices. Now where's the water? Nothing. You hear nothing.

You turn it off. The television, your emotions, you turn it all off. You retreat into yourself. Behind the walls of no empathy and control equalling security.

You pour milk onto a metal pan. You turn on the flame and wait for it to bubble. You miss sharing a glass of warm milk with someone. She would always be there, with a glass, with a smile.

You close your eyes and drive the thoughts, the memories away. She has never existed. There is only ever you.

You wait for the milk to warm, to maybe bubble. You've never shared a glass of milk with another.

* * *

She sits on your office couch. Looking relaxed; apart from how her jaw seems tense. She's putting up a front, she's always hiding behind her smile, the best she can. You will care for her, the best you can.

"Jane, will you stay with me tonight?" You ask. You want her close; you want to know that she's well and that she's close.

"Of course Maura," she looks at you, eyes searching, "Are you okay? I'm sorry that the perp mentioned you. Maybe he didn't even mean you Maura."

"Maybe he didn't Jane. Maybe there's someone else you work with who wears heels?" You try a joke, a small smile.

"Maybe he saw me in heels when you forced me to go on those double dates with you Maura!" She smiles, she tries too.

"Just come over tonight, alright Jane?" Stay close to me. You do not add.

She nods. "Of course Maura, of course."

* * *

You do not add how you want to stay by her side, every second now.

"Maura, there's a chance that we'll lose this time." You have to let her on.

"I know Jane, there's not enough time or any leads to go on."

"Yes, the body you found the hair on, has no relation to a child or anyone with a child." You sigh. "Stay with me alright Maura?"

"Of course Jane."

You hold onto your hands. You want to hold onto hers instead.

You are sorry, but you do not go. You're staying, by her side.

You can only ever protect and save one.

* * *

You offer him the milk. You offer him a smile. You offer him an "I'm sorry" as well.

He looks at you and he says, "Thank you." He smiles.

You want to throttle him. Envious of his innocence. You tell yourself to wait.

The clock's ticking anyway.

* * *

**A/N: **Hi there, dear reader, firstly if I may, apologies for the delay in an update for this. It was a little difficult to follow through with the killer here in light of all the other fics I'm dabbling in. Hope this chapter's alright and your comments are always appreciated~ Next update, will most likely be next week. Thank you for reading:)


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